


So Hard to Find the Way Back Home

by MYuzuki



Series: A Motley Little Crew of Dysfunction [5]
Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Bat Brothers, Bat Family, Batfamily Feels, Drunkenness, Dysfunctional Family, Emotional Constipation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Jason-Centric, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Alternating, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Esteem Issues, Swearing, but it's going to be at least two solid chapters of angst and drama just FYI, but the third chapter will definitely be happier than the first two, but they're trying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-23
Updated: 2017-10-26
Packaged: 2019-01-04 11:18:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12167823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MYuzuki/pseuds/MYuzuki
Summary: Jason's reconciliation with his father is going well, until it isn't.When a mishap during a patrol sets their progress back and reopens old wounds, Jason begins to feel like maybe he is a monster and a failure after all and decides that maybe drowning his sorrows isn't such a bad idea.Dick finds his brother three tequila shots and one daiquiri later, hears his side of things, and decides that maybe it's time for a bit of an intervention.





	1. So Afraid of What's Underneath

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so...this got out of hand rather quickly, lol. XD This ficlet was inspired by some comments from (and follow-up discussion with) rpglady76, so a huge thank you to them. This ficlet literally would not exist if you hadn't sought me out and shared your ideas, so seriously, thanks. :D
> 
> In any case, this ficlet is part of the ongoing Jason & Bruce reconciliation thread that's a central piece of the Motley Crew of Dysfunction series, so yay for that! Although it ended up being waaay angsty, which was kind of anticipated, but it exceeded even my expectations, so...sorry? XD 
> 
> Warnings for language, PTSD, angst, emotional issues, some slight drunkeness on Jason's part (he only has a few shots and one other drink, but he has a low tolerance for alcohol here so it hits him more than it might another person), and self-esteem issues, and probably other stuff, too, I guess. Also a warning for Bruce reacting badly to things, as is his tendency; I can't go into too much detail without spoiling things, but what happens at the very immediate start of the story freaks him out and his knee-jerk response is anger (born from worry, but Jay doesn't know that) which is unfortunately the opposite of helpful in that particular situation and things sort of just get worse from there, because emotional ineptitude and miscommunication are Batfamily staples. XD 
> 
> Oh, also, while this fic is very much Jason-centric, a large chunk of it is done from Dick's POV (for the first chapter, at least). Just so you know. ^_^
> 
> The main story title comes from the Sam Tinnesz song "Hold on for Your Life", while the chapter titles are going to be from another of his songs, "Even If It Hurts".

**Chapter 1: So Afraid of What's Underneath**

It happens so quickly that Jason barely has time to react.

One second he's dropping down into a warehouse full of black-market weaponry to fight some brutish thugs, the next second a crate of previously unnoticed explosives gets clipped by a spray of bullets (Jason's genuinely not sure if it's one of his shots that sets it off or a shot from one of the goons) and the building's exploding.

It triggers a hellish flashback for him, bringing to mind another warehouse in a far away country, a place full of blood and pain and cackling laughter, and Jason barely manages to haul ass out of the building before the rest of the place goes up in flames.

He stumbles to a halt outside, chest heaving and throat aching as he struggles to breathe, lungs seizing up more from panic than smoke inhalation (his mask helps filter his air, after all).

Ideally, he'd take at least a moment or two to get his shit together, but before he can do much more than go through the first round of his breathing exercises, Batman is suddenly in his face and demanding to know why he'd left the criminals inside the exploding warehouse.

It is without a doubt the  _absolute last thing_  he needs to hear right now. He's already on the verge of some sort of mental episode; a lecture on his innumerable shortcomings is not helpful in any way, shape, or form.

Not that Bruce seems to have noticed that; he's still shouting (Jason can't quite make out what the asshole saying through the ringing in his ears, but he can read lips well enough to get the gist), and radiating anger and disappointment in equal measure in a way that kind of makes Jason want to shoot him.

Christ Almighty, can't his own father, the so-called World's Greatest Detective, notice when he's about to lose his shit and fall to pieces?

_Guess not_ , Jason thinks bitterly, the ringing in his ears subsiding into a low intermittent buzz, allowing enough clarity for him to make out bits and pieces of what Bruce is saying now.

"Reckless" comes up a few times, as does "disregard for human life" and "no better than any other criminal". There are a few other choice bits, like "thought you were doing better," and "very disappointed," and "how can I trust you?", but Jason's more or less tuning it all out now.

He's heard it before, after all. Plenty of damn times, because he's the eternal fuck-up with a side dose of crazy.

He should be angry about it. Hell, a few months ago he'd have whipped his guns back out and taken some shots at Batman with genuine intent to harm, but honestly by this point he's just...tired.

Tired of no one understanding him. Tired of no one trusting him. Tired of seeing the wariness and suspicion whenever anyone looks at him. Tired of always being the dark sheep of the family.

Tired of being judged and found wanting.

He's tired and hurting and wants it to stop.

Obviously nothing's ever actually going to change, no matter how hard he tries (and he  _is_  trying to change and move on and be better, but it's really not as simple as everyone seems to think it is).

Honestly, he's not sure why he'd even bothered trying to begin with; it's not like he actually believes in Bruce's no killing rule. He still sincerely thinks that some criminals deserve to die, both for the damage they've already done and to help save the lives of any future victims. But he'd been willing to follow Batman's rule; had been willing to restrain himself and let the scumbags live and go to prison.

He'd been willing to compromise, because that's what you did when you cared about someone and wanted to get along with them.

But because he'd prioritized his own safety  _in a rapidly exploding warehouse_ , it was like that effort on his part meant nothing at all. Less than nothing, even.

It makes his stomach twist unpleasantly to realize that Bruce values Jason's life less than the lives of those goons in the warehouse.

Aaaaand Bruce is  _still_  shouting and lecturing him. Hell's bells, did the man never run out of breath?

Jason decides that he can't stand to hear anymore (what's left of his heart already feels pretty broken to pieces and trampled on) and his throat feels like he swallowed broken glass so talking back is also not an option (not that he has anything to say, anyway, and even if he did the self-righteous jerk-ass in front of him probably wouldn't listen), so he pulls out his grapple and fires it off in a random direction, not really caring where the fuck he ends up as long as it's away from Bruce.

* * *

 

Dick is working in the Batcave when Bruce returns (although truth be told, he should have left to go back to Bludhaven already since he has a double shift at the precinct tomorrow, but the Batcave has way more resources than Dick's apartment, so he feels justified in lingering).

Because he knows Bruce so well (the man can be hard to read, but Dick's had plenty of practice over the years), he can tell immediately that something is wrong.

It's obvious in the set of his shoulders and the angle of his jaw, the way he's clenching his teeth and moving in harsh angry strides as he exits the Batmobile and crosses the Cave.

"What's wrong?" is of course the first thing Dick asks, worried. When that garners no response other than continued seething anger and a grunt, he stands up, crosses his arms, and asks again with a little more bite in his voice. "What happened?" he demands.

After a short tense moment where it looks like Bruce might actually storm away from him, he responds. "Jason happened," Batman tells him, voice harsh and pained, and Dick can't help the minuscule flinch at the tone.

W _ell, shit_ , he thinks with a sinking feeling. That tone coupled with those words could mean just about anything, from "Your brother robbed a bank," to "The Red Hood's gone back to killing people," or possibly even "He's gone back to trying to kill  _us,_ " or...well, the possibilities are endless, actually, but Dick's a bit of a loss, because things had been getting better. Why would Jason fall back on his old ways now, when things had just started to be good again?

"Tell me," he says to Bruce, but all Batman does is shake his head, growl out something about explosions and casualties and callous behavior, and stomps over to his Batcomputer terminal.

Part of Dick wants to push the issue and demand a better explanation than what he's been offered, but years of experience in dealing with Bruce tells him it'd probably be a waste of his time and effort.

He's still worried, though. He hasn't seen Bruce this angry in a long time, and never at one of his kids. Sure, he's been angry with Jason before, but it had always been tinged with guilt and grief, too. Now, it's somehow different, and Dick's confused and concerned about it. He can't tell if Bruce is so angry that it's just masking those other emotions, or if anger's genuinely all he's got right now.

And then there's the matter of Jason. Regardless of whatever had transpired between Batman and the Red Hood, if the events had involved explosions in close proximity to his baby brother, Dick's anxious by default.

He knows that Jason uses C-4 and other explosives sometimes, but even so Dick's not comfortable with it, not after the way Jason had died. And judging from Bruce's scant information, whatever explosions had occurred tonight were unplanned and subsequently ten times as dangerous.

Dick decides to go find his brother. He'll make sure Jay's still in one piece, figure out what had happened to set Bruce off into a seething rage, and proceed from there.

(He tries not to think too hard about what he'll have to do if the Hood's gone back to being a ruthless bloodthirsty criminal again. He's just gotten used to the idea of having his brother back, after all; losing that again would hurt.)

Before he leaves, though, he can't help but ask Bruce one more thing. "Did he say anything when you confronted him?"

Bruce huffs out a short angry sigh. "No," he snaps. "He didn't say a damn thing. Just left without a word. Now if you don't mind, I have work to do," he tacks on, pointedly turning back to his monitor in a clear dismissal that kind of makes Dick want to throw something at him.

But now he  _really_  has to go find his brother, because...Jason hadn't said anything? No response? At all?

Dick might not be totally privy to the way Jason's mind works these days (not that he's ever been able to claim that, even before an insane sadistic clown and years of anger and pain had created a gulf between them), but if there's one thing he knows about his brother it's that Jason always has  _something_  to say.

It might not be polite, or kind, or even remotely what you want to hear, but Jason  _always_  has a comeback; it seems almost compulsory at times, how he has to have the last word, or get one last dig in before bailing.

For Jason to just ditch out after a reaming from Bruce, without even snapping back or trying to defend himself? Dick doesn't know what that means, but his instincts tell him it can't be anything good.

He leaves the Cave without a backward glance, gets changed out of his Nightwing uniform and into his civilian clothes, then goes outside and gets into his car, intent on leaving the Manor grounds as quickly as possible. He decides to head for the loft on Sycamore Street, since it's the safe house that Jason's been using ever since that failed assassination attempt.

Dick arrives at his brother's loft and knows the second he steps inside (after disarming Jason's various traps and alarms) that Jason's not there.

He's been there very recently, though; there's a still-smoldering cigarette stubbed out in a nearby ashtray and his brother's body armor and the clothes he normally wears as the Red Hood are tossed in a pile on the floor, as if Jason had gotten changed and left in a hurry.

It hits him, after a long moment of just standing there and thinking, that he has absolutely no idea where Jason might have gone. Does his brother have any favorite places to eat or hang out? Any hobbies or interests outside of vigilantism? Does he even have any friends other than the various misfits he occasionally works with as a member of the Outlaws?

Dick is ashamed to realize that he doesn't know the answers to any of those questions.

He'd been so focused on trying to get back the Jason that he and the others had lost, he'd neglected to to get to know the man his little brother had become.

Unable to think of any other option, he calls Barbara.

"Do you know where Jason is?" is the first thing out of his mouth even though he knows that he should probably offer at least a  _Hey, Babs, how are you?_  before diving into what he needs help with.

Barbara knows him well, though, possibly better than anyone else ever has or ever will, so she doesn't snap at him or hang up or react in any other negative way to his abruptness and demanding tone.

"No," she tells him, voice steady. "I've been providing support to Spoiler and Black Bat all night." A pause, then, "I don't suppose this has anything to do with that exploding warehouse full of weapons over in the East End, does it?"

"It does," Dick confirms with a slight sigh. "I don't have very many details, but I guess Jason was trying to bring down some arms dealers when something happened and the place went boom."

"Did everyone make it out?" Barbara asks, and Dick can't help but give another heavier sigh.

"Well, that's the problem," he replies. "Jason apparently lefts the dealers inside to die. According to Bruce, at least," he tacks on, because it probably needs to be said.

(Not that he  _doubts_  Bruce, exactly, but his father does occasionally have tunnel vision when it comes to certain things, and Batman had arrived late to the scene, so he might not have fully understood the situation and jumped to conclusions.

Dick  _really_  hopes Bruce had just been jumping to conclusions. He doesn't want to fight with his little brother again.)

Barbara makes a sound of acknowledgment and Dick can hear her typing on the other end of the call. "I can look into the explosion once the fire department starts filing their reports, but I assume you need to find Jason now?"

"Yeah," he agrees.

"Why?" she asks, and there's something in her voice that he can't quite decipher. "Are you worried he's going to relapse back into being a crime lord? He's not that person anymore, Dick."

Dick hates himself for saying it (hell, for even _thinking_ it) but it's another unfortunate truth that needs to be said: "We don't know that for sure, Babs. He's been so much better lately, I won't argue that, but you remember how he was when he first came back to Gotham. He was angry, and bloodthirsty. He tried to kill us, tried to kill Bruce. And we still don't even have an accurate of how many people he  _has_  killed."

"Well, he hasn't killed anyone recently," she counters. "He's been trying, Dick, you know that."

"Yeah, I know that, but-"

"But what?" she snaps, and the sheer fury in her voice is enough to render him speechless. "You'll throw him back in Arkham Asylum without even hearing his side of things, because of Bruce's assumptions about what happened with those thugs in the warehouse?"

Dick winces, guilt flaring up in his gut like acid.

He'd hated having to send his baby brother into that place, but it hadn't stopped him from doing what he'd considered necessary at the time.

He can't help but wonder now, though...had it really been the right decision? Had there been a better course of action, a way to help Jay, and he just hadn't seen it because he hadn't been able to deal with it anymore?

Dick doesn't know the answers to those questions, either.

(He's not entirely sure he  _wants_  to know, if he's being brutally honest with himself. The idea that there could have been another way cuts at something deep inside of him, and he's worried that if he digs much deeper on that front it could break something inside of him, maybe even permanently.)

"I just want to make sure he's okay," Dick says at last, and his voice sounds tired even to his own ears. "I lost him once already, Babs."

" _We_  lost him," she corrects, sounding a bit weary herself now, as if fuming at Dick had used up her quota of anger for the night. "Anyway," she goes on, "I can trace his cell signal and send you the coordinates, but you'd better not just pounce on him demanding to know what happened with those dealers."

"I won't," Dick assures her. "I'm not Bruce." He understands that pushing Jason for an explanation will only succeed in pushing his brother  _away_ if he takes offense to the line of questioning.

(Of course, Jason seems to find offense in even just the smallest of things sometimes, so who even knows what to expect from him anymore; not Dick, certainly.)

"Alright, I have his coordinates," Oracle informs him a moment later. She rattles off a series of numbers, then gives a startled laugh. "Unbelievable," she mutters, just loud enough for Dick to hear.

He frowns. "What is it?"

"He's at a  _bar_."

Dick blinks, nonplussed. "He's what?"

"At. A. Bar. The pub on West 32nd Street to be specific."

Dick can, in the most literal sense, understand the words that Barbara's saying, but he can't quite put them together in a way that actually makes sense. "Jason doesn't drink," he protests. "He's only twenty!"

Barbara gives a very unladylike snort. "He used to run the Park Row and Bowery crime circuit, Dick; I'm sure he's had alcohol before now. I doubt they'd check the Red Hood's ID, after all," she adds dryly.

"It's not just that," he says unhappily, but doesn't elaborate.

Honestly, he's not even sure of the details pertaining to the why of it, but he can very distinctly remember a teenaged Jason stating adamantly on at least two separate occasions that he'd never drink even when he did come of age because it was "a poison that makes people act worse."

(Dick had never asked or pushed for details, but he'd always suspected that Jason's declaration had something to do with his birth father, Willis Todd, who'd been taken into custody a handful of times for domestic abuse as well as a handful of other crimes.)

How upset must Jason be right now, for it to drive him to drink?

"I'm going to go talk to him," he tells Babs, leaving the loft and heading back downstairs to his parked car. "I'll give you a call with an update later, okay?"

"Sounds good. And be careful with Jason," she adds. "He's more sensitive to what we say than you'd think."

Before Dick can ask exactly what she means by that, she's hung up, and he's left alone with his thoughts again.

Be careful with Jason, she'd said. Not  _of_  him, as if he were dangerous, but  _with_  him, like he's a package marked as fragile.

Dick's getting more worried by the second, he really is.

He's pretty sure he breaks the speed limit at least three times on his way to the pub, but he genuinely can't bring himself to care, not when he's anxious about his baby brother and fed up with their father.

He parks across the street from the bar, huffs in aggravation when the bouncer at the door stalls his advance by demanding his ID (because  _seriously_? Dick's only half a decade away from thirty, for crying out loud,  _obviously_  he's not a kid coming in with a fake card), and slips into the bar with a tight coil of anxiety in his gut as he scans the crowd for his brother's face.

He almost misses seeing him, but then, after what feels like an eternity, he finally does find him (and sends a brief thank you to whatever higher powers exist that his baby brother hasn't bothered re-dyeing the white streak in his hair yet; without that distinctive feature, he really might have never spotted his brother in the gloom of the pub).

Jason's huddled in the far corner, with three large empty shot glasses on the table in front of him and a daiquiri in one hand, looking...well, 'depressed' is the only word that pops into Dick's mind, but even that doesn't seem to do it justice.

It's like someone has sucked all the fire and soul out of him; his shoulders are slumped, his mouth is pulled down in a deep frown, and he's practically radiating an aura of dejection.

Dick's starting to think that maybe things are somehow worse than he'd anticipated.

It's too late to back out now, though. He'd wanted to find his brother and talk him.

Well, he'd succeeded in finding him.

Now came the part that was the hardest for any Bat: talking.

He detours to the bar to buy two bottles of water (he gives the bartender an unimpressed look when the guy grumbles about him not buying a real drink), then slowly makes his way across the room to where Jason is sitting.

"Hey there, Jaybird," he says as soon as he's close enough to be heard without shouting. "I've been looking all over for you."

Jason startles like he hadn't noticed him coming over, and blinks owlishly at Dick as if he's puzzled by his presence. Then his expression of surprise morphs into something darker, tinged with resentment and pain and something almost like grief. "Why?" he bites out. "Are you here to chew me out, too?"

_And here we go_ , Dick thinks, putting the bottles of water on the table as he sits down across from his brother. "No," he says carefully. "I just wanted to see if you were okay."

"No," Jason replies with a sneer, "you didn't. You came to see if I was being the Big Bad Red Hood again, blowing shit up and stuffing heads in gym bags. I bet Bruce didn't even have to ask you to run me down," he adds nastily. "I bet you jumped on the chance to tie me up and toss me in Arkham again. You assholes never have actually trusted me, have you? Probably not even when I was Robin."

Dick shifts in his seat, uncomfortable. "Jay, come on, you know that's not true. We were just worried-"

"About what?" Jason demands, eyes too bright.

"About  _you_ ," Dick snaps back, and is startled when Jason laughs. (It's not a nice laugh, not the genuine ones Jason has been letting slip more often lately; this one is painful, with sharp jagged edges that cut right into Dick's heart like broken glass.)

"About  _me_?" Jason echoes, tone incredulous. "Dickie, please, spare me the lies you tell yourself. You and  _Bruce_ ," he spits out their father's name with enough venom to bring down a raging bull elephant, "have never once, since I returned, been worried  _about me_." He takes a long sip of his drink. "I don't know why I even bothered hoping," he mutters in a voice almost too low for Dick to hear, so low that Dick thinks he probably wasn't supposed to hear it.

"What are you talking about, Little Wing?" Dick asks, unscrewing the cap on his water bottle just to have something to do with his hands. "Jaybird, we love you, you know that."

"You've got a funny fucking way of showing it," Jason snarls, and for one alarming moment Dick's a bit worried his brother might actually lunge across the table and attack him. But then the anger's gone and something else is in its place, a sort of desolation that Dick's never seen with his brother before. Like he's just lost absolutely everything and is just waiting for the killing blow. "I'm just another monster to you," Jason says hoarsely, and his voice is so brutally raw that Dick can't help the flinch he gives. "To all of you, that's what I am. Just another monster."

Dick swallows hard, struggling to think of something to say and coming up woefully empty. "Don't be stupid," is finally what he manages to say. "You're my brother, Jay. I would never-"

" _You threw me in Arkham_ ," Jason says, his voice hard and flat but with such a wealth of pain underneath that Dick's heart actually literally skips a beat, leaving him breathless. "I was a monster, so you threw me in with the other monsters. I was on the same block as the Joker," he goes on, and this time Dick's heart skips more than one beat and his stomach feels like it's full of exploding pinballs, "did you know that? I was five doors down  _from the bastard who fucking murdered me_ , Dick!"

Dick opens his mouth to say something,  _anything_ , but all that comes out is a hoarse croaking sound.

(He hadn't known that. It had actually never occurred to him to wonder, and he feels a wave of shame wash over him, because he'd dumped his little brother in an insane asylum and never looked back, what the fuck kind of asshole does that make him? He's a shitty excuse for a brother, that's for damn sure.)

"You threw me in the same hellhole as the Joker," Jason says again, his voice now nothing more than a whisper as his hands shake around his drink.

Dick's hands spasm around his water bottle and it gushes ice cold water all over his forearms and across the table, but he can barely feel it, much less  _care_. Not when his little brother is looking at him from across the table with his agony laid bare upon his face.

"I'm sorry," Dick chokes out, heart in his throat. "God, Jay, I know it's not enough, it'll  _never_  be enough, but I-" He inhales sharply, trying so damn hard to not break down in tears. "I am so fucking sorry." He slides out of his seat and goes around the table to wrap Jason in a hug.

Jason shoves at him, but not too hard, and Dick can feel his baby brother shaking in his arms, and it breaks another part of his heart to pieces. "Why are you doing this?" Jay asks, his voice plaintive and almost wounded.

"Doing what?" Dick asks, still not letting go.

"Pretending you care when I know you don't," Jason answers, and yep, there goes another piece of Dick's heart, shattering on the spot. "You and Bruce...and the others, too," Jason goes on, breath hitching as he pulls away from Dick and looks at him with that same mournful and resigned look on his face. "You don't want me around."

"What? No, Jason, we do-"

"You  _don't_ ," Jason says, tone strident. "You want the  _other_  Jason, the one you lost. That stupid kid who wanted to be better, to do  _good_. And I'm not him," he adds, and Dick is downright terrified because  _Jason is crying now_ , what the actual fuck. "I'm  _not him_ , Dick," his brother tells him, his voice rough and raw. "I came back, but I'm different now, I'm  _wrong_. I'm not the me any of you want, and I  _know_  that. Fucking hell, how can I  _not_  know it, when I see it in all of your faces every single goddamn time you look at me? I'm the crazy murderous asshole that everyone wishes was still dead, Dick, so don't pretend to want me around when I know you don't."

Dick kind of wishes someone would come by and wave a weapon in his face. Physical threats he knows how to handle, he could handle them in his sleep.

This, though? His sloshed baby brother having a full on emotional breakdown?

He's got absolutely  _no idea_  what the hell to do. And he's starting to feel more than a little panicked now, because Jason just...isn't like this. The man across from him is lonely and depressed and desperate and honestly Dick's seen suicidal people standing on balcony ledges look more emotionally stable than his brother does right now.

Dick feels totally helpless, and he  _hates_  it.

Even more, he hates that Jason feels so abandoned and unloved. He hates that he contributed to that, with how he'd callously abandoned Jason into what had to have been a literal hell for him, especially with the Joker in such close proximity.

"Jason Peter Todd," Dick says now, and doesn't even care when his voice cracks. "You are my brother and I love you. I am a shit brother," he goes on, and feels disproportionately pleased when Jason gives a reluctant snort of amusement, "and I am going to spend the rest of our lives making up for what I did to you, but believe me when I say that none of us want you gone."

"Not even Bruce?" Jason mumbles, slumping down onto the table and turning his head to look at Dick with sad and tired eyes that are carrying too much pain for someone as young as Jason. (But then again, Jason had never really had a chance to be truly young, had he? He'd had to grow up fast, living in Crime Alley, and then he'd been Robin. And then he'd died.) "He lost his little soldier," he goes on, giving a bitter laugh that makes Dick wince. "Made me a teaching tale of what not to do. Christ, I was more useful to him as a dead failure than I ever was as Robin," he mutters, lifting himself up just enough to take another long sip of his drink.

"Don't say that," Dick says sharply, reaching out and snatching away the daiquiri (not that doing so will be helpful, since it's basically almost gone anyway). "Your death  _destroyed_  him, Jason. How can you not know that?"

"Because  _I_  was busy being  _dead_  at the time," Jason hisses at him, scowling fiercely. "Then I was busy being brain-damaged, then I was busy being tossed in a Lazarus Pit, and then I was busy learning five thousand ways to kill people. And by the time I got back, I'd been fucking  _replaced_ , so you'll excuse me if I don't believe that he missed me." Jason abruptly sags in his seat again and scrubs a hand across his face. "I bet he was glad to be rid of me."

Dick's heart give another painful squeeze and now he's the one trying hard not to cry. "Jay, Bruce loves you. You're his son."

"He has other sons," is Jason's only response, his voice devoid of emotion as he stares down at the tabletop. "And daughters now, too. I'm not...I'm not special, Dick. I'm not even the version of me he cared about. I'm the opposite of everything he believes in now; why should he give one flying fuck about whether I live or die now?  _I_  barely even care on some days and it's my life."

And that is the absolute last thing Dick wants to hear right now, especially when he'd already started to worry about Jason and potential suicidal thoughts. Not that he thinks Jason would actually go out of his way to blow his own brains out or anything like that, but his brother has always been a bit reckless with his own safety. Throw in all these emotional landmines that are suddenly seeing the light of day and Dick can easily (almost  _too_  easily) picture his brother just...getting in over his head in a deadly situation and simply not caring, because of his firm (but very incorrect) belief that everyone he cares about wishes he was dead again.

Dick hasn't felt this helpless in years, not since he'd had to watch his parents fall to their deaths while he stood by, unable to do anything at all other than scream.

He's about to say something (he doesn't even know what, but he knows he has to say something; he has to try and make Jason understand how important he is, to Dick and Bruce and Alfred and all of them), but then Jason gives a long sigh and buries his head in his arms.

"I just want everything to stop hurting," his baby brother says, his voice muffled. "I want to feel like I have a family again," he adds, his words slurring together in a way that tells Dick he's probably about to pass out. "What's wrong with that?"

"Nothing at all," Dick assures him, reaching out a hand to touch Jason's shoulder. "Absolutely nothing is wrong with that, Jay." He waits for a response, doesn't get one, and gives a small sigh of his own when he realizes that his brother's fallen unconscious. He carefully shifts the younger man so he's more upright and looks at his brother's face intently.

Jason looks younger asleep, closer to his actual age, and it should make him feel warm inside but instead it hurts Dick's heart to look at him like this, because the tear tracks are more obvious when Jason's asleep, as are the dark shadows under his eyes and the way his lips are chapped as if he's been chewing on them from anxiety or nerves or something.

Dick still has no idea what the fuck he should do, but he knows he's totally out of his depth here and tries to think of the best course of action.

Where can he take Jason? He doesn't want to just dump his brother back in his safe house, not after hearing his brother's heartfelt rant about why his life sucks. Dick ditching him at his loft could easily be seen as another abandonment in a long line of them, and Dick definitely doesn't want that.

But where else is there? Where can he take his brother that he'll feel safe? And more importantly, who can help Dick look after Jason? Who else is there that Jason will trust enough to allow-

_Oh_ , Dick thinks, and wants to kick himself hard for not thinking of it sooner.

He can call Alfred.

Jason has always loved Alfred, no matter what. Even when his brother had returned to Gotham full of rage and murderous intent, he'd never so much as threatened a hair on Alfred's head. If there was ever a single person who had Jason's unconditional love and loyalty from now until the end of time, it was indisputably Alfred Pennyworth.

Alfred will probably even help Dick tie Bruce to a chair so they can shout at him over how he's made Jason feel. Or maybe they'll let Jason do the shouting himself; it would probably be cathartic. At the very least, Alfred can help Dick reassure Jason that they care about him.

Yeah, getting back to the Manor and letting Alfred take the reins seems like a fantastic idea, and Dick feels considerably steadier from having a solid plan of action.

Dick scoops his unconscious brother up into his arms, slings him across his back in a fireman's carry, hauls him outside to the car, carefully lays him out in the backseat, and then pulls out his phone and hits his number three speed dial.

"Hi, Alfred," he says when the man on the other end of the call picks up. "I'll be home in about twenty minutes, but...I need your help with something. Well, some _one_  actually."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...yeah, that was the first chapter. I hope you enjoyed it (if "enjoy" is the right word, lol XD). I'd love to hear what you guys think so far; I adore all the comments I get from you guys (like, seriously, you're all so amazing and kind) and I'm honestly still very new to writing Batfamily stuff so any and all feedback is very much appreciated. Or you could just flail and scream at me, I always love that, too. ;D


	2. Time to Let It Go, so You Can Finally Breathe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...welcome to the second installment of this angsty and drama-filled ficlet that's more or less eaten my life and scared away all my other plot bunnies. (You think I'm joking, but I'm not; all my other plunnies are hiding under the bed, poor things. The angst-ridden Jaybird bunny is apparently a bit more fearsome than my other fluffball fic ideas. XD).
> 
> Anyway, this chapter took longer and kind of kicked my butt, but I had a ton of fun anyway. ;P Also, sorry for the slight delay in posting this chapter; my workload got a bit heavier for a few days so my fic writing got shuffled to the back burner. Also weird little things kept happening to my computer/writing program, so that delayed me occasionally too. XD
> 
> Thanks again to rpglady76 for all the great ideas for this story, and thanks also to everyone who's reading this story! Your feedback and support has been just absolutely amazing and I'm blown away by how kind and wonderful everyone is. You're all the best. <3

**Chapter 2: Time to Let It Go, so You Can Finally Breathe**

* * *

 

When Jason opens his eyes (and okay,  _ow_ , the light makes it feel like someone is stabbing daggers made of jagged glass into his retinas), he's really confused by the fact that the first thing he sees is the ceiling of a Wayne Manor guest room.

Then he can't help but panic a little (okay,  _a lot_ ), because  _why the fuck is he in a Wayne Manor guest room?!_

There's also the question of why he feels like complete and utter shit, but he vaguely recalls a bottle of El Luchador tequila and another vaguely fruity drink and he figures that at least explains why he feels like his head is about to explode and fall off his shoulders.

(He almost kind of wishes it would; it could only be an improvement over the incessant pounding in his skull, the heaviness of his limbs, and the gritty scratchy feeling in his eyes and at the back of his throat.)

Getting shit-faced at the pub doesn't explain how he'd ended up at the Manor, though, and Jason can't help but feel twitchy at his current surroundings, not recalling how he'd gotten there and knowing that he's almost definitely not welcome.

The Manor is...not home for him. Not anymore. He  _wants_  it to be, but he's starting to become resigned to the fact that the things he wants are probably not things he's going to get. Or even things he deserves, really. He doesn't deserve to have a family, or a home, or anything like that. He knows that, despite the part of him that is content to be here, back in one of the only places he'd ever felt safe in.

But it's painful to be here, too, for almost the same exact reasons. Being here brings back half-faded memories of better days, back before...everything. Those days had been pretty damn close to perfect; a home, school, a family, and being Robin...it was everything Jason could have ever wanted, and it's not something he can ever come close to having again, and  _it hurts_.

Christ, he needs to get the fuck out of here  _right now_.

He shoves himself upright in the bed and is immediately assaulted by a severe case of vertigo that almost makes him hurl.

"I am never drinking again," he vows, voice rough and cracking as he closes his eyes and wishes for the world to stop spinning around him like a fucking Tilt-a-Whirl.

"That sounds like an excellent idea, Master Jason," a familiar voice says from somewhere close by, and Jason startles so badly that he nearly tumbles from the bed to land on his ass on the floor; literally the only thing that stops him from turning into an undignified heap is his quick reflexes, which let him abort his embarrassing lurch and turn it more into an overdramatic flail.

(He still ends up half on the bed and half off and his hangover is not at all happy about this sudden burst of movement, but at least he's not eating the carpet, so he'll consider it a win.)

There's a soft sigh and then strong but gentle hands are helping him get back onto the bed. "Master Jason," is all Alfred says, but his voice is soft and understanding and  _kind_  and it's the best thing Jason's heard in  _years_.

Jason almost starts to cry; he's pretty damn sure he already  _would_ be crying, if his hangover hadn't left him dehydrated as fuck. As it is, he just takes a few unsteady hiccuping breaths and lets Alfred pull him into a hug that's just tight enough to be comforting without making him feel trapped.

Alfred had always been good at that, even back when Jason had been fresh off the streets and skittish as hell around people in general and adults specifically. He'd been different from anyone else Jason had ever known; a steady reassuring presence that just wanted to make sure you were healthy and happy.

Jason wishes like hell he'd had more time to enjoy that. But like everything else good he'd ever had, it had been ripped away from him, left behind in the smoldering ruins of his old life, the life that had been taken from him by a psychotic clown with a crowbar and a sadistic sense of humor.

(He'd never thought, had never dared to  _dream_ , that he might have a moment like this again. Not after the things he'd seen and done and the person he'd become.)

"I missed you, Alfred," Jason chokes out, and he wants to be embarrassed about how hard his body's trembling but he just genuinely can't seem to muster up enough energy to actually care.

He wants this moment.  _Needs_  it. Who the fuck cares if he looks weak right now. Alfred won't judge.

(He never had, even in the worst of times, criticized anyone for showing vulnerability. He just stayed and comforted and offered everything he had to help.

Jason hadn't realized how much he'd been missing that, Alfred's easy support and warm steadiness, until suddenly here he is, falling apart with Alfred once again trying to pick up the pieces.)

"I missed you as well, Master Jason," Alfred tells him, one hand carefully rubbing soothing circles into his back before Alfred slowly pulls back to look at him with that same sharp and assessing gaze Jason remembered from his younger years. "How do you feel?" he asks, his tone sterner now, with that inherent warning of  _You'd better not lie to me, young man_  that was somehow still fully effective despite the fact that Jason wasn't an unsure teenager anymore.

He doesn't even consider lying, not to Alfred. "I feel like shit," he admits. "My head fucking hurts and I'm dehydrated as hell. Also I get dizzy if I move too quickly."

"Language, Master Jason," Alfred scolds him, but there's a small smile turning up the corners of his mouth and his eyes are warm and fond. "As for your complaints, they are certainly good indicators of a fairly impressive hangover."

"Never drinking again," Jason mutters again vehemently, and considers letting himself just pass out on the bed before he remembers where he is and straightens up as something very close to panic seizes him again, his heart pounding in his chest. "What am I doing here?" he asks, heart pounding. " _Why_  am I here? Who the fuck brought me here?" he demands, struggling to stand up and cursing even more when his legs refuse to hold his weight for more than forty seconds.

"Mast Jason, please, calm down," Alfred says, his hands careful but firm as he pushes Jason back down onto the bed, a task made significantly easier thanks to Jason's overbearing headache and unsteady limbs. "Master Richard brought you here, after he found you at the pub. Do you not remember?"

Jason swallows hard and starts to shake his head, then frowns. Now that Alfred had mentioned, he does remember... _something_. Bits and pieces of his night after he'd gotten home from his ill-fated patrol (he flinches despite himself as he recalls the explosion in the East End that had started this whole clusterfuck) start to filter back into his mind. The part that stands out the most is that he'd gone out in search of some way to numb the sharp edges of his broken mind and soul. It had all felt so out of focus at the time, though, like a waking nightmare.

(Of course, everything feels like a waking nightmare sometimes anyway, so Jason's not entirely certain how much of that is actually his skewed perspective from his hangover or if it's just his shitty mental state making itself known again.)

He can vaguely remember Dick showing up, though, right around the time he was nursing his last drink. He also remembers spilling more a little more information (okay, a  _lot_  more information) to his brother about his feelings than he would have had he been sober, and the panic clawing at his chest increases a hundredfold, because letting other people see his weaknesses has never ended well for Jason.

Not ever.

And having  _Dick_ know all the demons that were eating away at Jason's heart and soul? To have the family's perfect golden boy know that Jason was so incredibly fucked up that he'd probably never be okay again? It's making Jason feel simultaneously like the walls are closing in on him and like there's a gaping chasm at his feet about to swallow him whole.

His breathing is starting become uneven and shaky and his vision is beginning to white out at the edges and some distant part of his brain helpfully offers up that he's probably one wrong move away from a full-fledged panic attack. Which is  _stupid_. He shouldn't be on the verge of a meltdown just because he'd let Dick get a glimpse of how broken he was. He shouldn't care, because none of them cared about him and so  _it shouldn't matter_.

But for some reason, it still  _does_  matter, and before Jason quite understands how he's curling in on himself while Alfred tries to get him to calm down, speaking to him in a slow soothing voice like he's a skittish animal.

He doesn't know how long it takes for him to get his shit together, but by the time he does, he's even more exhausted than before and all he wants to do is sleep for a solid month.

Not in the Manor, though. The sooner he can get out of here, the better for everyone.

He tries to stand up again, but the look on Alfred's face stops him cold and he slumps back down onto the bed, abruptly too weary to muster up any real fighting spirit. "You're not going to let me leave, are you?"

"Certainly not in your current condition," Alfred replies, and Jason's reluctant to ask whether he's referring to his physical condition of being incredibly hungover or his mental condition of being...he doesn't even know what; something broken, at the very least. He is a monster, after all, and all monsters are broken in one way or another.

But for now, with Alfred beside him making him feel safe (something he never thought he'd feel again) while also making it very clear that Jason's not leaving this room until he's at least a little more recovered...well, maybe Jason can let himself rest, just for a little while. "I guess I can stick around for an hour or two," he mumbles, eyes drifting closed. "Just until my head starts feeling less like it's being attacked by a jackhammer."

"Very good, Master Jason," is Alfred's response. "I need to attend to something with Master Richard, but I will be by to check on you later."

Jason vaguely wonders what Alfred and Dick are up to and if he needs to be concerned about it, but before he can worry about it too much unconsciousness rises up to claim him again and he's so tired that he lets it.

* * *

 

Dick's so wrapped up in his own thoughts as he paces in the ground floor library of the Manor that he doesn't even hear Alfred come in. It's not until the other man clears his throat that Dick notices his presence, and while he doesn't  _quite_  jump in surprise at suddenly not being alone in the room it's a close thing.

Normally he'd know the second anyone got within a hundred feet of him, but tonight's not a normal night by any stretch of the imagination and he feels justified in being off his game considering the circumstances.

God, he still can't get the image of Jason's face out of his mind; his little brother had looked so wrecked, like he'd been broken and abandoned too many times to even care about putting himself back together again.

It's tearing Dick up inside, knowing that he'd helped add to his little brother's pain, and Dick doesn't think he's ever hated himself more, at least not that he can remember.

(The only other times he can remember hurting this badly were when people he'd cared about had  _died_ , and he thinks that says it all really. It's like he's losing his brother all over again, but worse because this is at least partly his own damn fault.)

"Master Richard," is all Alfred says in greeting, but Dick can hear all the questions he's not asking (yet, at least). Questions like  _what happened_  and  _why_  and  _what are we doing to do about it_.

Dick isn't good at verbalizing his troubles (a quality he'd possessed a little as a child that had gotten exacerbated over the years by Bruce's influence), but he knows soul-deep that he  _has_  to get this right. For Jason.

Because Jason deserves better than the shitty hand he's been dealt in life and if Dick has to tear himself apart (and Bruce along with him) in order to make sure that his little brother is okay...well, he thinks that's just fine, especially since he's to blame for a significant portion of this current clusterfuck.

He doesn't want to explain all of that to Alfred right now, though. Because going into detail with Alfred will inevitably turn into  _venting_  to Alfred, and that'll use up all of Dick's anger. And he's saving that head of steam for Bruce.

So instead, he decides to give his surrogate grandfather an abridged version of events. "You know how a warehouse in the East End exploded a few hours ago?"

"I do seem recall seeing a new report to that effect," Alfred acknowledged with a nod.

"Yeah, well..." Dick huffs out a frustrated sigh and drags a hand through his hair. "From what I understand, Jason was involved somehow, but things went sideways. Hence the explosion. But apparently," he goes on, "Bruce arrived on the scene right after it happened and reamed Jason but good."

Alfred seemed to consider this for a moment. "And Master Jason's response?"

"That's just it, Alfred. He didn't have one. Didn't say anything at all to Bruce, just left without a word."

Alfred frowned. "That is...most unlike him."

"Yep. I thought so, too. So I went to find him. Imagine my surprise when I found him completely smashed at a dingy pub."

Alfred's eyebrows climb to his hairline, and Dick would almost find the disbelieving expression amusing if the situation weren't so awful. "Master Jason," Alfred said slowly. "Drinking."

"Not just drinking," Dick corrected. " _Drunk_."

Alfred just stares at him, pretty clearly at a loss for words, so Dick decides to just keep talking.

"He had some pretty choice things to say about me, Bruce, and his life in general. Things I really doubt he'd have said had he been sober. None of it was good," he adds, swallowing hard. "Honest to God, it was all pretty damn heart-breaking Alfred, and I personally intend to spend the next twenty minutes at least shouting at Bruce about the specifics, so if you want to shadow along behind me and get all the details on how my little brother thinks we all hate him and want him to be dead again, I won't object. If anything, I'd appreciate the company because this is going to be messy and I'd like to have at least one emotionally competent human being around. God knows Bruce won't fill that role and I'm honestly too upset to even see straight right now."

Alfred doesn't immediately respond, and the silence begins to stretch on so long that Dick starts to worry. Finally, though, an answer comes: "Very well, Master Richard," he says. "Lead on."

They find Bruce still in the Batcave, shoulders tense as he works on some sort of computer analysis.

Seeing Bruce almost exactly where he'd been when Dick had left hours ago is...well, "aggravating" is too mild a word for it, really, and yet Dick can't for the life of him think of another word to describe the new additional layer of anger he's just acquired from seeing Bruce carrying on like nothing is wrong when Jason needs him, needs  _them_.

Dick has to take a long deep breath and count to twenty before he's got his anger under control enough to refrain from skipping conversation entirely and just going straight to punching Bruce in the face.

(It's a feeling he's definitely not unfamiliar with, and it brings back unpleasant memories of his late teens and early twenties, after he'd left and before he and Bruce had started mending fences.

He reminds himself now, as he'd done then, that it's not that Bruce doesn't  _care_ ; he just doesn't know how to  _show_  it, not anymore. Sucks at it epically when he even tries, to be quite frank.

But Dick will be patient, even though he's possibly never felt  _less_  patient with Bruce's emotional constipation in his entire life.

This is for Jason, though, and Dick's willing to rein himself in for Jason if nothing else. To help his little brother, Dick can try to be patient with the inevitable mess that is Bruce and any sort of emotional anything.)

"So I found Jason," is the first thing Dick says, because why bother beating around the bush? There are certain things that need to be said, and he's not going to put off saying them. Not when it's so important.

Bruce stiffens, then gives a low grunt of acknowledgment before finally deigning to reply with words a moment later. "What did he have to say about what happened at the warehouse?"

"Not that much," Dick answers honestly.

"I see," Bruce says, his facial expression shuttering closed as he turns back towards his computer. "In that case-"

"He was too busy drinking himself into oblivion to talk about his side of things very much," Dick says, deliberately cutting off whatever bullshit Bruce had been about to say.

The silence that stretches between them now can only be described as "befuddled" and Dick wants to feel triumphant for having stymied one of the greatest minds of the age, but he's so pissed off that the vindication just sort of passes him right by.

"Jason doesn't drink," Bruce says at last, but there's a hint of uncertainty buried in his voice; Dick doubts that anyone who hadn't known Bruce for as long as he had would be able to catch it, but to him it's clear as day.

"Apparently he does if he feels like we'd all prefer it if he just dropped dead," Dicks says back, and okay, he totally didn't mean to open with  _that_ , but he supposes that it's as good a start as any, given the situation (it's not like there's a good way to start off this kind of conversation, after all).

The stillness hovering around them now is considerably tenser but also significantly shorter (which Dick is grateful for; he's never been a huge fan of prolonged silences).

"What are you talking about?" Bruce asks, his tone tight and gruff in that specific way that means he's tamping down on some sort of strong feeling. "Jason can't possibly think we want him dead."

"Are you  _absolutely sure_  about that?" Dick demands, crossing his arms. "Because I just had an incredibly illuminating conversation with an inebriated Jason that says differently. Very,  _very_  differently."

Bruce frowns at him, a severe and foreboding expression that hasn't served as a deterrent to Dick since he'd hit puberty (and not even much before that, if he's being totally honest). "Did he actually  _say_  that to you?"

"Yes, he did," Dick replies, exasperated. "It took him  _being drunk_  to admit to feeling that way, and before you insult me by asking: no, I definitely didn't mishear or misinterpret what he said. He believes, a hundred percent, that we wish he'd stayed dead."

Bruce just stares at him and blinks slowly, the smallest hints of concern and anxiety beginning to creep into his expression. "That's absurd."

Dick snorts, vaguely disgusted but at what or who specifically he doesn't know. "Well, can you blame him? We haven't exactly been showering him with affection since he's gotten back."

(Dick's a little proud of himself for not letting his voice wobble on that last part, for not falling apart when he talks about Jason coming back as if his little brother had just been out of town instead of  _dead and buried_.)

But now Bruce is starting to look angry and frustrated again, his hands clenching into fists as his shoulders tense up. "He's killed people, Dick. You can't expect me to just ignore that. He's more stable now, but he's still-"

"Dangerous?" Dick supplies, his tone sharp as he cuts off Bruce with an angry glare of his own. "Insane? A  _monster_?"

(Dick can picture it in his mind, the memory of the pub still crystal clear: Jason across the table from him with a desolate look on his face. "To all of you, that's what I am," he'd said. "Just another monster.")

The flinch Bruce gives is almost imperceptible but not quite, and his lack of a verbal response is just as telling.

"He's hurting, Bruce," Dick says now, and he knows that this is the part where he should probably try and soften his tone and try for a more gentle approach but he just can't seem to find any desire to handle Bruce's issues with kid gloves anymore. "He's alone and hurting and thinks we hate him. He's starting to think he's a monster, Bruce, just like all the others we've thrown in Arkham."

"What else were we supposed to do?" Bruce snaps defensively. "He was slaughtering people, Dick! Something had to be done!"

" _He was five doors down from the Joker_ ," Dick snarls, and yeah, it's as much his fault as it is Bruce's (hell, probably more; he's the one who'd put Jason there) for never following up on Jason after they'd all but abandoned him in a literal crazy house full of people who would have every reason to hat him and try to hurt him if they ever found out his true identity as the formerly deceased second Robin, but Dick can't quite help but feel a sharp stab of savage satisfaction when Bruce recoils so violently that his chairs shifts backwards by several inches.

"What," Bruce croaks out, his face suddenly twice as pale and visibly clammy.

(It's a tremendous relief, having confirmation and knowing for sure that Bruce  _does_  still care; that there's still compassion and concern under that stern and angry demeanor. Dick just hopes that Jason will be able to see it, too, when the time comes.)

"Five. Doors. Down," Dick repeats deliberately, then takes a deep breath to steady himself. "Jay didn't say much about it at all, but I can't imagine being in such close proximity to the psychopath who murdered him was very good for his mental health. Christ Almighty, can you imagine how many panic attacks he must have had? The Joker's presence had to have been pretty triggering, don't you think? Being so close and with that damn lunatic laugh..." Dick shudders just thinking about it; he can't imagine how terrible it must have been for Jason, who'd had to  _live_  through it.

Bruce swallows hard and seems to struggle for words. "I...hadn't realized," he manages at last, voice hoarse. "I never..."

Dick gives a heavy sigh that's a mix of anger, guilt, and weariness. "I never thought about it, either," he admits in a low tone. "After I left him there, I just..." He shakes his head and tries to ignore the shame eating away at him like acid. "Out of sight, out of mind, you know? I guess I just didn't want to deal with any of it."

Bruce cringes, but nods in reluctant agreement. "It was...easier," he says. "To not think about it."

"Easier for us," Dick responds. "But not for Jason. I don't think anything's been easy for Jason in a long time," he adds. "He needs help, Bruce. Our help, for real. I know he's done things that you don't agree with and can't condone, but we've wronged him, too. And it's not fair to just give up on him. He's still family," he insists, seeing that Bruce is about to raise some sort of objection. "He's my brother  _and your son_ , and he needs our support and understanding, Bruce."

The silence in the Batcave now is still tense, but with an air of contemplation to it now that hadn't been present before and Dick dares to let himself feel a faint flare of hope that maybe (just  _maybe_ ) this whole thing won't crash and burn after all.

"I don't know what to do," Bruce tells him, the words sounding jagged and painful like he'd dragged them out from somewhere deep inside of himself. "With Jason...I just don't know how to reach him anymore. It used to be so much easier, but ever since he came back..."

"He died, Bruce," Dick says, and he hates the way the words make the older man flinch but Dick's known Bruce long enough to know that sometimes bluntness is what's needed. "He's not the kid we knew before; he's changed. He's had more than his fair shares of traumatic experiences in the last few years, and that's going to show in how he acts now. Besides," he adds dryly, "he was never  _totally_  easy to get along with, remember? He's always had a good heart, but that  _attitude_ , my God."

Bruce gave a small snort of amusement. "Well, some things haven't changed much at least," he mutters, lips quirking into a minuscule smile that's one part fond and two parts sad. "I really just don't know how to talk to him anymore, Dick. He snaps and gets angry no matter what I try."

"Well," Dick says carefully, "he's currently unconscious upstairs and will probably stay that way for a couple more hours yet if I'm right about how hungover he's going to be. That gives you plenty of time to think of something to say that won't send him into a seething rage."

"I would also suggest apologizing for your overreaction to the warehouse incident earlier this evening," Alfred remarked, his sudden input startling both Dick and Bruce, who had forgotten his presence in the Cave. "Although far be it for me to suggest less confrontational parenting methods, Master Bruce; I am sure that you shall do as you see fit regardless of whatever input I might have to offer."

Bruce gives a very noticeable cringe and looks so suddenly chastened that Dick has to smother a laugh. It seems like even  _Batman_  isn't immune to a guilt-trip from Alfred.

"On that note," Dick says cheerfully, "I'm going to head upstairs and check on Jay. Bruce is all yours, Alfred."

Alfred inclines his head in a quick nod, seeming to deliberately ignore the way Bruce is now radiating save-me-I'm-doomed vibes and hunkering down in his chair like he's hoping it'll swallow him whole and spare him from the Disappointed Alfred Talk that's clearly about to come his way.

(Of course, Bruce is also six foot two of heavy muscle, so the hunkering down looks borderline ridiculous, like a grizzly bear trying to hide behind a small rosebush...not that Dick's going to  _say_  that, of course. But it's still amusing as hell to see.)

"Thank you, Master Richard," Alfred says. "If Master Jason should wake up before I return upstairs, please make sure he drinks plenty of water. The liquor he imbibed has left him quite dehydrated."

"Sure thing, Alfred," he replies. "I'll take care of it." Making sure his little brother drinks some water is the very least he can do, all things considered.

"Excellent," Alfred replies. "It's good to see that  _someone_  in this household can be depended upon for empathetic responses to a family member in distress."

Aaaaand that seems to be my cue to leave, Dick thinks dryly, and wastes no time at all in abandoning Bruce to Alfred's tender mercies.

* * *

 

It's pretty impressive, Bruce thinks in the wake of Dick's hasty departure, that Alfred's disapproval can make him feel like a misbehaving child.

Him. Bruce Wayne. _Batman_.

(Then again, when it comes right down to it, no one in their right mind would argue the indisputable fact that the true power in Wayne Manor is and has always been Alfred Pennyworth, butler extraordinaire, so Bruce really shouldn't be surprised.)

"What did you mean earlier," Bruce asks at last, when the silence stretches on so long that it's obvious that Alfred's going to let him get this (very uncomfortable) conversation started, "when you said I should apologize to Jason for what happened at the warehouse?"

Alfred gives him a stern frown that seems to be equal parts disappointment and exasperation and it makes Bruce feel about two feet tall. "You are an intelligent man, Master Bruce," Alfred tells him. "Is it not obvious?"

Bruce just looks at him, half expectant and half pleading, because he  _wants_  to do this right, wants to at least  _try_  to fix things with Jason, but he just doesn't understand  _how_.

Alfred sighs, long and heavy and very, very tired. "Oh, Master Bruce," he says. "For one of the most brilliant mind in the world, you can be exceptionally dense about some things." He shakes his head and continues speaking before Bruce can voice any sort of objection. "When you found Master Jason this evening, what had just happened?"

Bruce clenches his jaw instinctively. "He had left a handful of arms dealers in an exploding warehouse to die."

Alfred gives him a look that clearly says he's being a judgmental ass and missing something obvious. "Did it never occur to you, Master Bruce, the psychological effect it must have had on Master Jason, almost being caught in an explosion like that? It was not, after all, so dissimilar to  _the explosion that killed him._ "

Bruce very abruptly feels like he's gotten the wind knocked right out of him, as if someone had kicked him right in the gut with steel-toed boots.

He...he hadn't even  _thought_  of that when he'd spoken to Jason earlier. Well, not like that, at least. He'd seen Jason, seen an exploding warehouse, but he'd been so focused on his  _own_ trauma, on how much it hurt to think about the last time he'd arrived at an exploding warehouse too late, that he hadn't even stopped to consider how much more upsetting that unexpected explosion had to have been for someone who had actually  _died_  in a similar blast.

(He'd been frightened and worried, and that fear had turned to anger so quickly... _too_  quickly. And he'd directed it at the entirely wrong person.

Christ, no wonder Jason had bolted so quickly without a word.)

"I-" Bruce's voice cracks, failing him, just as he's so obviously failed Jason. (And not just once or twice, either; he's been failing Jason over and over again, all this time, without even noticing.) "I'm a terrible father," he croaks out at last, the words rough and painful in his throat and on his lips.

(The phrase "the truth hurts" has never seemed so bitterly appropriate as it does now.

And it's ten times as terrible because not only is he hurting himself with this realization, but he's been hurting Jason, too, with his ignorance and tunnel vision. All he'd ever wanted was to  _help_  Jason, but he's starting to wonder if all he's done is make things worse.)

Alfred gives another sigh, a shorter one, and shakes his head. "I would not go that far, Master Bruce. You are indeed a  _struggling_  father, but then again most fathers are, particularly single fathers with complicated children. You simply take things to the extreme, as is your tendency. If it's any consolation," Alfred adds, "it is clear to those of us who know you well that you are trying, inept though your attempts may be."

Bruce takes a moment to process that and snorts. "I can't tell if that's supposed to be encouragement or more of a scolding," he admits at last.

"The two are not mutually exclusive, Master Bruce," is Alfred's prompt reply, because of course that's his response. "Now, if I might be so bold as to offer a suggestion for when Master Jason awakens?"

"Of course," Bruce says immediately, because honestly at this point it's pretty damn obvious that he needs all the help and advice he can get. It's all the better if that help comes from Alfred, who is the epitome of steady and compassionate behavior. "What should I do?"

"Be calm," Alfred tells him, "and be gentle, inasmuch as you can manage. You and Master Jason are too often at odds and resort to fighting with one another when your respective desires aren't being understood by the other party. I understand why this happens, Master Bruce, but trust me when I say that it is  _not_  what Master Jason needs at the moment. He has been through a great many trying ordeals and needs to understand that he is not alone. He needs to believe that we care about his well-being and wish only for him to be happy again."

"He's not going to listen," Bruce says, already envisioning the train-wreck of it in his head. "Alfred, he's just going to get angry and call me a liar and a hypocrite. He's going to ignore everything I say. And then he's going to leave."

Alfred gives an aggravated huff. "Master Bruce, I can most definitely assure you that Master Jason hears every single word you say. It  _seems_  like he ignores you, but I promise, he listens and remembers  _everything_. It's simply a matter of saying things  _in the right way_. And it is indeed quite possible that he will attempt to leave the Manor if he becomes upset again," Alfred acknowledges. "As an adult, that is entirely his right. If he feels uncomfortable here, it is not our place to force him to stay simply because it would be easier on  _us_. Also, I find it unlikely that we could truly keep him here if he were of a determined mind to leave," he tacks on dryly.

Bruce has to give a weak chuckle at that, because, yes, Jason is without a doubt not the sort of person to let anyone keep him prisoner, not if he can find a way out.

(Bruce tries very hard not to think about how Jason had even broken out of Arkham, not just once but  _twice_. It hurts too much to think about, now that he understands how tortuous it must have been for his son to be locked up in a place full of the very monsters he'd spent his formative years fighting against.

Locked up  _with the Joker_ , and Bruce isn't sure that he'll ever be able to make up for that, for never checking on his second son even  _once_  after Dick had incarcerated him.)

"I'm just...I'm scared of saying the wrong thing and driving him away for good," Bruce admits at last, the words shaky and uncertain.

Alfred shakes his head for what has to be the hundredth time that night, wearing a long-suffering expression. "Being worried about saying the wrong thing is not a good excuse for saying nothing at all, Master Bruce. You have avoided a genuine conversation with Master Jason for far too long, and you well know it. You must at least make an effort."

Bruce swallows hard, then nods reluctantly. It's true. He's been putting off any sort of real heart-to-heart with Jason, because he knows it's going to be painful and messy and possibly not even helpful long-term. He knows it, Alfred knows it. Dick probably knows it, too. (Hell, the whole rest of the family probably knows it. They're not stupid, after all, none of them.)

But...well, like Alfred had said. That's no excuse for not at least  _trying._

"I'm going to go see him once he wakes up," Bruce decides. "Maybe I can bring him some of his old books," he adds on a whim. "Even if he refuses to talk to me and just throws them at my head, that's still something nice I can do for him."

(He's never forgotten how much Jason had loved reading in his younger years, had loved  _learning_. He has a feeling that even after dying and being resurrected, that boy who loves books is still in there somewhere, buried under the layers of anger and hurt and gunpowder. He hopes so, at any rate.)

"Very good, Master Bruce," Alfred says with a nod. "If I might suggest the ones on the far right of the top shelf in his old bedroom; they were first editions and I don't believe he's had an opportunity to replace them since his return."

"That's a good idea," Bruce agrees, because not only will Jason (hopefully) be pleased to get those books back, but their value will (also very hopefully) keep his son from hurling them across the room with the intent to maim Bruce. He stands up and heads over to the locker area to strip out of his Batsuit. "You'll be around if we need you?" he calls to Alfred over his shoulder.

"Always, Master Bruce," is the prompt and heartfelt response. "Always."


	3. I'll Be There When You Need Me, Even If It Hurts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back, my friends! Sorry for the twenty day wait! I intended to have this ficlet completed much sooner, I apologize for holding everyone in suspense. 
> 
> Basically, this chapter was delayed slightly both by my workload and by my innate ability to procrastinate on my writing, lol. Also because of writer's block which is just sooooo much fun. XD I technically started writing this the day Chapter 2 was posted, but I got distracted by Fallout 3 and more work stuff, and then my brain totally stalled out on me halfway through the chapter, so...yeah. Also, this chapter was harder for me to write than the others, because it's supposed to be the emotional (and slightly happier) resolution to this angst-heavy fic, but I was still stuck in Angst Mode while writing it, so there'll be a little bit more of angsty and emotional Jaybird before we settle down into a slightly less heart-wrenching atmosphere, lol. XD Also, on a more random note, this chapter gave me an opportunity to use otherwise useless tidbits of knowledge about the monetary value of certain first edition books, which was fun. ;P
> 
> Anyway, a huge thank you again to rplagy76, without whom we would not have this particular ficlet; you're the best, and I always love hearing your ideas. <3 I had a ton of fun on this three-chapter ficlet and it was an opportunity and experience that I never would have had if you hadn't tossed the plot bunny at me, so thank you so, so much. <3
> 
> And a massive thanks as well to all you readers out there; the feedback for this story (and the series in general) really has been just incredible and I'm really grateful for all the support and encouragement I've received. You're all awesome! :D  
> (Oh, and if anyone spots any typos, please feel free to point them out; I'm posting this while sleep-deprived, so my editing pass was probably not as thorough normal, lol.)

**Chapter 3: I'll Be There When You Need Me, Even If It Hurts**

* * *

 When Jason wakes up the second time, he feels miles better from where he'd been the first time even though he's pretty sure it's only been an hour or two. His head still feels like its stuffed with cotton, but but it no longer feels like that cotton is on fire and playing a gnarly bongo drum solo inside his brainpan.

He blinks groggily, his vision fuzzy from sleep, and automatically levers himself upright into a sitting position. His muscles are a bit tired and achey, but given the fighting he'd been doing before his impromptu date with a tequila bottle, he figures that's not so surprising.

What  _is_  very surprising, though, is when suddenly he blinks and who else but Dick fucking Grayson enters the room, and beams at Jason with a smile full of warmth and concern and so many other unexpected and sappy feelings that Jason kind of wants to burrow back under the covers and hide on general principle.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" Jason demands, and then cringes just a little because _maybe_  he should be less openly hostile to the guy who'd dragged his passed out carcass home from the pub (well, not home precisely, because the Manor isn't home for him anymore, but the general idea is the same). "Don't you have more important things to do than waste your time babysitting the family disappointment?" is what comes out of his mouth next, and it's honestly not that much of an improvement on what he'd just said; evidently his lingering hangover has demolished what little he had left of his brain-to-mouth filter.

Dick, to Jason's shock, doesn't respond with a snappy comeback of his own or even the kicked-puppy look that he's perfected over the years. Instead, he drags a chair over to Jason's bedside and settles down into like he's planning to stay awhile. "There nothing more important to me right now than hanging out with you, Little Wing," he says, his tone dead serious even as he gives a Jason a small smile.

Jason is instantly suspicious. "What are you up to?" he demands.

Dick frowns at him. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, what's the catch?" he replies, starting to get annoyed. "There's no way the golden boy of the family suddenly just wants to spend with me. How stupid do you think I am?"

Dick gives an odd little sigh and Jason can't help but suddenly notice that his brother looks...tired, and sad. "I don't think you're stupid at all, Jay. But there really is no catch. Is it so surprising that maybe I just want to spend time with you? To make up for all the time we've already lost?"

"Yes," he snaps. "Yes, it's hard to believe that you'd want that  _now_ , after all these fucking years of bad blood between us. You've had plenty of chances already, asshole. I needed a brother when I first came to the Manor. I needed a brother when I was Robin and had no fucking clue what I was doing. I needed a brother when I came  _back from the dead_. But you...you could never be fucking bothered to hear my side of the story about anything, I guess. So why the hell should I even give you the time of day, Dick? Why should I fucking  _trust_  you, when for all I know you could be planning to chuck me back into Arkham the second I turn my back?"

Dick gives a full body flinch like he's been punched in the face with brass knuckles and looks away with a pained expression. "I'm not...I'm not going to send you back there, Jaybird. I promise. And I don't know if I'll ever be able to apologize enough for putting you in there, Jason, but I swear to God I'm going to try and make it up to you."

Jason can't decide if the hot burning sensation in his chest and throat is relief or fury; given the givens, it's very likely some of both.

There's also a sharp clawing feeling that seems to very closely resemble panic, of the bone-chilling and soul-sucking variety, he but he's very deliberately ignoring it, trying to push it down so he doesn't have a massive freakout right then and there.

Because that's pretty much the last thing he needs right now, to have a fucking panic attack in front of his golden boy big brother. The pity and false concern and puppy eyes that would follow is more than he can handle right now.

But what he  _really_  can't handle is going back to the Asylum. He's not sure he'd survive a third stint within Arkham's walls. Not sane, at any rate. And he's already not quite playing with a full deck on some days, when the trauma and the Lazarus taint catch up to him and play havoc with his emotions, so he's going to stay the hell away from that hellhole, thank you very much.

And as much as he wants to believe Dick (and he's surprised to realize that he actually  _does_  want to believe the asshole), he also just...doesn't want to risk it. He  _can't_ risk it, because what is Dick turns on him again, and sends him back?

Jason hates to admit it, even to himself, but going back to Arkham (in any other capacity than blowing the whole facility sky high for the greater good, at least) will...break him, almost definitely. He's strong, he's had to be to survive this long, but he doesn't think he can handle being locked away again, surrounded by psychos who want to debase and destroy him.

But part of Jason, that stupid and childishly persistent part that he's tried so hard to bury, can't help but think of how Dick had come to find him at the pub. How Dick had sat there and listened to Jason spill his proverbial guts. How Dick had, when Jason had passed out, brought him back to the Manor to rest instead of just leaving him behind or ditching him at the first available opportunity.

He can't help but think of how Dick had been here, waiting for Jason to wake up.

"Son of a fucking bitch," he growls out, because he is  _not_  fucking ready for this conversation. He's tired, hungover, and his emotions are pinballing all over the fucking place. He's angry and hurt, but there's this stupid niggling bit of  _hope_ , and Jason can't decide if he wants to put any faith into that hope yet or just hunker down and ignore it.

Ignoring it would be safer, without a doubt. But...

_But do I really want to spend the rest of my life wondering if I could have changed things? Wondering if **this**  was the moment, and I let it pass me by?_

He  _really_  isn't ready for this. At all. He kind of wishes it was a problem he could shoot at to make it go away. Unfortunately, he doesn't think shooting Dick is going to help very much, if at all. (And he doesn't have his guns with him right now anyway, so he supposes it's a bit of a moot point all the way around.)

"We don't need to talk about anything right now if you don't want to," Dick says now, and his understanding tone makes Jason grit his teeth. "I just...I want you to know that I...I'm here for you, okay? Whatever you need, whenever you need it. From now until the end of time, alright? You're my brother and I love you. I don't think I've told you that enough over the years," he adds, voice going soft and sad and regretful. "I'm sorry, Little Wing."

Jason barely resists the urge to snatch up the closest object and hurl it at his brother's head. "I don't want your apologies," he snarls, and then scrubs at his face angrily because for some goddamn reason he's  _crying_. What the fuck. "Saying sorry doesn't fix anything that happened. Anything you  _did_." He chokes on his next inhale as the rage and sorrow surges up inside his chest and has to take a second to even out his breathing again.

Before he has a chance to do much more than gulp in a lungful of air, though, Dick's there, wrapping him up in a strong hug that should feel confining but somehow just feels secure. Almost...comforting, although Jason would sooner shoot himself in the foot than admit that out-loud.

He struggles against the hold on general principle, and also because there's still that acidic little green-tinged voice at the back of his mind hissing  _don't trust him, can't trust him, he'll betray you, he'll hurt you_. But that little voice has been growing weaker day by day, and now it's so faint that Jason can almost ignore it if he really wants to.

But does he want to ignore it? It would easier, he thinks, to listen to that lingering Lazarus taint. To push away Dick and everyone else. To look out for himself only and to hell with everyone else.

But then again...since when has Jason ever taken the easy path for anything? Yeah, there's a chance that Dick and the others might decide once again that he's a monster who doesn't deserve their loyalty and affection...but if they don't...

If they don't, there's a chance for Jason to finally get the family he's been craving all these years. That feeling of  _belonging_ , of having a  _home_.

Jason swallows hard, heart pounding in his chest as his mind runs through all the options. And all the while Dick just holds onto him, waiting for him to get his shit together. Not hurrying him or demanding anything, just...being there.

It occurs to Jason that maybe he's already made his decision. Or maybe it never really was

"I still don't forgive you," Jason tells his brother, voice rough. "I can't forgive you for what you did to me."

"I know," Dick says. "I know you can't, Jay, and that's fine."

"I might  _never_  forgive you," Jason warns, his tone dark and severe, because it's a painful truth but one that needs to be said. Arkham had been a special sort of hell, and it's an experience he's going to be carrying with him until the day he dies (again).

Dick inhales sharply and Jason looks up to discover that now his older brother is crying, too. "I'm not sure if I want you to forgive me," Dick admits, voice cracking with emotion. "I know damn well I don't deserve it."

Jason can think of a hundred snide or cutting remarks to make in response to his brother's admission, but in the end opts for just a jerky nod and silence instead. There have been enough hurtful words hurled back and forth between then over the years to last a lifetime; for now, at least, Jason's content to just sit there with his brother and not say anything else.

If this latest attempt at reconciliation actually pans out, after all, there'll be plenty of time for them to talk later.

* * *

 It takes Bruce longer than he'd anticipated to decide which books he's going to bring to Jason. Part of it is that he wants to choose ones that he's sure Jason will care about enough to take from him. But another part of it is also that he's stalling.

Alright,  _most_ of it is that he's stalling; he can admit that to himself, if no one else.

In the end, he settles on the first edition copies of  _The Maltese Falcon_ ,  _Gone With the Wind_ , and  _The Hobbit_  that had been carefully arranged on the top of Jason's bookcase in his old childhood bedroom.

He also detours to the ground floor library and retrieves his own first edition copy of Bram Stoker's  _Dracula_ , only willing to part with it because he _knows_  Jason will want it if Bruce offers, even if Jason wants nothing to do with Bruce himself.

(It is a  _signed_  first edition, after all.)

In any case, once Bruce has finished in the library, he wanders aimlessly around the Manor, trying to get his jumbled and chaotic thoughts into some sort of order.

It's hard, though; the conversations he'd had with Dick and Alfred (or rather, the angry lectures he'd received from them) had left him uncertain and off-balance.

And as much as he wants to go see Jason right now, to go check on his son and talk to him, he knows himself well enough to know that he needs at least an hour or two to process everything he's currently struggling with, so that he doesn't let his emotions swamp him and and cause him to (for the thousandth time) say the wrong thing.

Luckily for Bruce, he'll have just enough time to try and get his head on straight before he speaks to Jason; his second son will be sleeping off his hangover for at least a little longer, and he's pretty sure that Dick intends to sit with Jason for a while after that ("a while" here having the meaning of "however long Jason will put up with Dick's mother-henning presence", at any rate).

Then it'll be Bruce's turn, and he has  _no idea_  what to say or do, other than apologize profusely for being an incompetent father and offer the books as an olive branch of sorts.

(And hope that the tomes don't get chucked right back at his head, but he probably deserves to get clocked in the face by a heavy book if he's being totally honest with himself.)

There's just so much that Bruce needs to make amends for, and he doesn't even really know where to start. Give him a villain threatening Gotham and he can come up with a twelve-step plan to handle it in under a minute, but ask him to figure out how to handle his family and he's left floundering without a clue.

Truthfully, he kind of wants to slink back down to the Cave and just bury himself in case files; make himself so busy that he won't have to go upstairs and deal with how badly he's failed Jason.

But that's the coward's way out and he knows it. That kind of attitude is precisely the sort of thinking that had gotten him into this mess to begin with and he's absolutely certain that Alfred would have some choice words to say to him if he knew that Bruce was considering an avoidance tactic as a viable option.

No, Bruce can't go hide in the Cave to avoid an uncomfortable situation. He's the parent here, after all, and it's about damn time he started acting like a father to Jason again.

Even if Jason wants absolutely nothing to do with him (even if Jason does truly hate him now) Bruce owes it to him to at least  _try_.

Even if it hurts, and tears whatever is left of Bruce's heart to shreds, he's going to try and be there for Jason. To be a father for his son, who he's let down far too many times already.

"Master Bruce," Alfred says suddenly, startling him (because when had Alfred come into the room exactly? Bruce has a sudden burst of sympathy for all the times he's caught his own children completely off guard because they hadn't been aware of his presence). "I believe Master Jason has regained consciousness, if you'd like to give him some of those books. Master Richard is with him now," Alfred adds, "and I don't believe he will be willing to leave Master Jason's side quite yet, but I think perhaps that it might be in everyone's best interests if someone else is present when you speak with Master Jason in any case."

Bruce smiles wryly as he hears the meaning underneath Alfred's polite words.

Translation:  _I don't trust you not to make things worse if left to muddle through on your own without supervision._

All in all, Bruce is actually inclined to agree with Alfred's assessment; if left to his own devices without a mediator, Bruce will probably fuck things up. His lousy track record with  _all_ of his children is proof enough of that.

So he nods, thanks Alfred for the well-said advice, and slowly makes his way upstairs to the guestroom that Alfred had placed Jason in.

He vaguely wonders if he should put on some body armor, or if that's just his paranoia talking.

* * *

 Jason can't quite seem to decide if he's pleased or annoyed at Dick's decision to keep him company until he's recovered enough from his hangover to leave the Manor.

Since Jason is bouncing back more quickly than anticipated and will probably be ready to bail within the next hour or two, he decides to put up with his brother's clingy mother-hen routine; Dick's not being  _too_  obnoxious, after all.

(And if some small deeply buried part of Jason is secretly enjoying the fussing even as it annoys him, well...no one's ever going to know but him, right?)

And with Alfred checking on them periodically (and giving Jason pointed reminders about staying hydrated), it almost feels...comfortable, in a weird sort of way.

Of course, given Jason's unique brand of luck, that comfortable feeling doesn't last long.

No, it shatters and crumbles into dust when suddenly the door to his guest room opens...

...and in steps  _Bruce_.

"Nope," is the first thing Jason says, not even giving Bruce a chance to speak. "No way in hell am I doing this right now. I'm outta here." He tosses back the covers and swings out of bed, determinedly ignoring the lurching in his stomach from the sudden movement.

(He wonders if escaping out the window is a viable option; they're only on the second floor, after all, and he's survived jumps from greater heights.)

Dick immediately jumps to his feet, but to Jason's surprise his brother turns to block Bruce rather than Jason, no sign of the smile he'd been wearing just moments before.

"I didn't come here to start another fight," Bruce says, and his reasonable tone of voice kind of makes Jason want to hit him in the face (preferably with a two-by-four, but he'd settle for a solid punch).

Because,  _really_?  _Now_  Bruce doesn't want to pick a fight? Where had that consideration been last night at the warehouse, when Jason had been hurtling headfirst towards a PTSD meltdown?

Jason opens his mouth to snap out something sarcastic and cutting, but before he can do much more than clear his throat, Bruce is talking again.

"I just wanted to make sure that you were alright," Bruce says now, and suddenly Jason can't help but notice a sort of weariness clinging to him; it's there in the lines around his eyes and mouth, and in the tense but tired set of his shoulders.

Seeing Bruce look that way makes a strange tight feeling rise up in Jason's chest, despite his best efforts to remain indifferent. His father looks more exhausted than Jason is used to, almost...older, in a way.

It occurs to him then, with all the heavy impact of a sledgehammer to the face, that Bruce is  _older_ ; only by about half a decade, but still...those years have clearly been rough for the man standing in the doorway.

Jason tries not to think about how his own death and resurrection might have contributed to that soul-deep weariness. He's still angry at Bruce for more reasons than he can name, and hurting from how no one, especially Bruce, ever seems to  _understand_  him, or even care enough to ask  _why_  Jason is the way he is, hostile and mistrusting and broken.

Because Bruce may be getting older and more jaded with age, but Jason's had a pretty pessimistic outlook on life since childhood and his opinion on how much life sucks hasn't changed much since then. There had been brief bright spots here and there, like Bruce adopting him and becoming Robin, but it had all been tainted by everything that had happened after.

So Jason doesn't  _want_  to feel bad for Bruce. He really,  _really_  doesn't want to care about how tired and haggard the man beneath the cowl looks. But Bruce is his  _father_ , and apparently there's still enough of the old Jason left to care.

(He's not sure whether that's a good thing or not; it would so much easier, he thinks, to just not care at all anymore.)

In any case, he decides to shelve his plan for bailing out the window. For the time-being, at least, he'll stay put and see what Bruce has to say.

"I'm as alright as I ever am," Jason says at last, finally answering Bruce's last statement. "I mean, I nearly died in yet another warehouse explosion and decided to try pickling my liver right afterwards," he adds, giving a razor-edged smile and speaking in a sharp overly cheerful tone that makes both Dick and Bruce wince. "Good times!"

Bruce swallows hard and shakes his head. "I'm...sorry, Jason. For...what I said last night."

Jason snorts, torn between anger and resignation. "Whatever."

Bruce's eyebrows twitch down, like a scowl is trying to form out of habit, but then his facial expression smooths out again and he lets out a short sigh. "I really don't want to fight with you, Jason," he says. "I just wanted to bring you these before you leave the Manor." He holds up his arms, and Jason notices for the first time that his father is carrying four books with him.

Jason blinks, because out of all the things he'd been expecting Bruce to say next,  _I have books for you_ just really hadn't been an option he'd considered. "What?" he croaks out, too stupefied to do more than gape.

The angry and suspicious part of him, particularly that little bit that's still stained green by the Pit, doesn't want Bruce coming into the room any further for  _any_  reason, doesn't want to hear anything the other man has to say, because it'll only end in tears and pain and blood.

Another part of him, though, wants to see where this goes. That small part of him that's still somehow optimistically hoping for the best despite years of getting nothing but the worst.

That part of Jason still just wants his dad back, and somehow it's that part that wins out in the end because when Bruce takes another step into the room, Jason stays where he is, standing and staring and waiting, instead of bolting for the closest avenue of escape.

"I just thought that you might want these," Bruce is saying now. "I don't know if you have much time for reading anymore," he goes on, tone turning slightly sad and almost...wistful, in a way that throws Jason off-balance more than a little, "but...well, they're yours to begin with, so I just thought you might like to have them." Bruce neatly sidesteps Dick, who still doesn't look terribly keen on letting his father and younger brother within a hundred feet of each other, and holds out the books.

Jason stares at his father's unexpected peace offering for a long moment, half-wondering if this is all some sort of trick to make him let his guard down. What if this is a trap somehow? What if he reaches out and gets handcuffed and drugged and dragged back to Arkham? He's pretty sure that Bruce is being genuine here but Jason's made assumptions about his family's regard for him before so...what if?

He reaches out and takes the books anyway, though. Because even if it  _is_  a trap...what's he got left to lose by this point?

Even if he winds up back in the Asylum, he won't stay there long. He's broken out twice on his own, after all, and he's pretty confident that Rory and Kori would come rain hellfire down on the place to bust him out the second they heard about a  _third_ incarceration.

And then he'd know for sure that all the bridges with his family are burnt for good; three times would make a pattern, after all.

He wants desperately for it not to be a trap, though; he wants ( _needs_ ) for this gesture to be genuine. He's not sure why, but it feels like a tipping point in some way, a crucial stepping stone on the path to any and all potential futures he has with his family.

(He would never have anticipated to feel so strongly about being handed some books by his estranged father, but his life never had been predictable; he supposes that this newest bit of weirdness is pretty par for the course really.)

He glances at Bruce one more time before dropping his gaze to the hardbacks in his hands.

The first three books in the stack he recognizes immediately, and he can't quite stop the fond little smile he gives when he seems them.

 _Gone With the Wind_  had been a book he'd read for an English project back in high school; he hadn't been entirely sure whether or not he'd like it when the teacher had first assigned it to him, but it had turned out to actually be a fairly compelling story, even if he had found the characters hard to relate to the vast majority of the time.

 _The Maltese Falcon_ , on the other hand, had been another school-assigned book, but one he'd gotten shamelessly hooked on two chapters in. The private detective aspect of the story had intrigued him from the start (not surprising in hindsight, because Batman and Robin were essentially crime-fighting detectives). He hadn't been keen on the main character having an affair with his business partner's wife, but the actual mystery surrounding the gem-covered statuette had eventually eclipsed that little bit of irritation and he'd found the overall story pretty fascinating.

 _The Hobbit_ , meanwhile, was a story he'd read on his own time, after a recommendation from Alfred had piqued his curiosity. He'd enjoyed the hell out of that book, too, once he'd gotten started on it, and even after all this time he could still vaguely recall it as being one of his go-to choices for when he wanted to lose himself in another world and forget his own problems for a little while.

He'd loved all three books to varying degrees, enough so that he'd scrounged and saved up enough money to buy first edition copies of them for his personal collection (the money-saving process had been helped along considerably by the fact that his monthly allowance from Bruce had been ridiculously generous during his teenage years; he probably wouldn't have been able to afford those books otherwise).

The fourth and final book in the stack, though? The title is familiar, but the book itself is very definitely  _not_  one of his, and he nearly drops it when he recognizes it, just from the sheer shock.

"This isn't one of my old books," he manages to stammer out, his heart pounding as he holds the book carefully, not wanting to risk damaging it.

(Hell's bells, not only is it a first edition of  _Dracula_ , it's even  _signed by Bram Stroker_. Jason kind of wants to stick it in a glass case on general principle.)

"No," his father agrees, "but I thought that you might like to have it. I'm certain that you'll appreciate it more than the old shelves it's been sitting on," he adds, giving Jason what could almost be described as a hopeful smile if you knew what to look for.

Jason knows what to look for so he sees the smile and the hope behind it but he's still so flabbergasted by the value of the book he's holding that not much else is really processing correctly in his brain. "Bruce, this book is worth twenty thousand dollars!"

"Closer to thirty thousand," Bruce corrects automatically, then shakes his head abruptly. "The monetary value of the book isn't important," he continues, waving a hand dismissively as if handing out high-value manuscripts to his kids is something completely ordinary. "What's important is that I want you to have it. If you want it, that is," he adds, now giving a slight frown of uncertainty.

Jason swallows hard and when he opens his mouth all that comes out at first is a slight wheezing sound. "It's a  _signed_  first edition," he finally manages to say. " _Of course_  I want it!" Then he gives a frown of his own. "This is a bribe, isn't it?" he asks, but he's surprised to find that he's more amused than annoyed and lets that amusement creep into his voice. "You're bribing me with books."

Bruce gives a small smile that sends a jolt of warmth through Jason's chest. "That depends," his father answers. "Is it working?"

Jason makes a face and flips him off, still carefully cradling  _Dracula_  with his other hand. "Sneaky manipulative bastard," he grumbles, but there's no real heat or bitterness behind it. Instead it's almost grudgingly fond, and if anyone had told Jason last night that this whole emotional disaster would end with Batman giving the Red Hood a reconciliation gift of collectible books, he'd have laughed himself sick and bought another bottle of liquor. "This isn't going to buy you blanket forgiveness," he says suddenly, narrowing his eyes at his father. "As peace offerings go, it's great," (it's actually totally fucking  _insane_ , honestly, but Jason's getting not just three of his own books but an obscenely coveted copy of a horror classic, so he's hardly going to argue much), "but this doesn't immediately wash away all the shit you've pulled on me."

Bruce nods, smile fading away into a much more serious expression. "I know that," he assures Jason. "And truthfully, I don't intend for this gift to be a bribe for your forgiveness. I just wanted to give you a gift that I thought you'd appreciate. I don't deserve your forgiveness," he says now, looking pained and sorrowful. "I failed you, both as a father and as a vigilante partner. But I don't want to spend the rest of my life at odds with you, Jay. I may not agree with some of your methods and I know that we'll probably keep butting heads over certain issues, but I don't want for us to  _always_  be fighting."

Jason doesn't want that, either. It's exhausting and it shatters his heart into painful pieces every single time, no matter how much he pretends not to care.

(He'd never really stopped to think before about whether or not those fights were just as painful for Bruce. He can't decide if he's glad that his father had been hurt by their antagonistic relationship as well, or if he just finds it depressing.

Well, if Bruce is genuine about wanting to fix things between them, Jason supposes that it might not matter either way. If they can finally start to move forward, for  _real_  this time, then the hurtful shadows of the past might not matter quite so much.)

"I'm tired of us fighting, too," Jason admits at last, and stubbornly ignores the prickling feeling of tears at the corners of his eyes when his father gives him another one of those hopeful looks. "So," he glances down at the book in his hand and the other three that he'd set down on the edge of the bed, "apology accepted, I guess."

(Honestly, Jason might have accepted Bruce's apology even without the books, because Batman saying "I'm sorry" at all in any capacity was enough of a rarity in and of itself.

But the way Bruce hadn't just stopped at the words, hadn't settled for just saying he was sorry...Instead he'd taken the time to show it, to find a way to give Jason a gift that showed how much he still cared, even with all the anger and pain they'd dished out at each other ever since Jason had come back to Gotham.

No, things won't automatically be perfect between them again from here on out (not that things had ever actually been perfect between them to start off with, but that was a separate can of worms that Jason had no interest in opening today), but this...this was a pretty damn good start.

Jason's even content enough with this turn of events to let Dick pull him into the three-way hug he initiates, his older brother dragging both Jason and Bruce in close for an almost suffocating embrace. And he's pretty sure that says it all, really.

It's not perfect, but family never is. Jason would still rather have them than have nothing at all, and after a moment of hesitation, he hugs his brother and father back.

For what feels like the first time in years, he thinks that maybe they can make this hot mess of a family work after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap, folks! For this particular installment at least. ;D It didn't turn out precisely the way I anticipated, but I think it works well enough. XD Next up is a moderately crack-ish ficlet about a large robotic penguin terrorizing Gotham and Jason wanting to blow things up. I have a couple more vague ideas for after that, so rest assured that this series definitely isn't ending here. :D
> 
> Massive thanks again to everyone out there for sticking with me through the delays on this ficlet! I hope you enjoyed the third and final chapter! 
> 
> Also, fun facts of the day for anyone who cares to know: A signed first edition of Bram Stoker's Dracula is worth approximately $27,500 (US), plus whatever you'd have to pay for shipping. A regular first edition of of The Maltese Falcon can be anywhere from $5 to over $20,000 depending on the condition and whether you're getting a hardcover first edition or a paperback; a regular first edition of Gone With the Wind typically ranges from $75 to over $4,500; and a first edition of The Hobbit can range from around four or five hundred bucks to over half a mil depending on the condition of the book, whether it's paperback or hardcover, whether or not it has the original dust jacket, et cetera. Also of note is that the very, very first printing run of The Hobbit only resulted in, like, 1,500 copies of the book, and that those editions are both very hard to find and so expensive that it makes me cringe just thinking about it, lol. I think it's safe to say that Jason's copy of the book is not one of those. XD
> 
> For the purposes of this story, I headcanon that Jason (who even with a generous allowance from his billionaire father could almost definitely not afford to shell out fifty grand or more each for three books) purchased either first edition paperbacks for a couple of these (which would be much cheaper), or purchased hardcover first editions that were not in good condition (probably a little beat up and thus not worth as much as far as hard-core collecting goes). Scruffy first editions are WAY cheaper than pristine ones, so Jason almost definitely got those. ;D
> 
> Aaaaand okay, I think I'm done rambling for now! If you'll excuse me, I need to toddle off to my actual job for the next several hours. ;D See you guys next time! <3


End file.
